The Little Princess
by Mazkeraide
Summary: The princess comes for him at last. Written as a response to a writing challenge from Clar the Pirate.


**This is a response to a writing challenge from Clar, who requested**

_an titanic (she said not to use the word epic) clash between two heroes, in the midst of a battle if you prefer or in a more secluded setting. full on tolkein-esque me. small snap shot that suggest a battle of ages._

**with a later stipulation of "no banter". So this is me, attempting a fight scene. I do not currently have any plans to write more.**

**Cover and title also by Clar, who might as well have written this, honestly.**

* * *

He doesn't laugh when she comes forward to challenge him, but it's a near thing.

He does laugh, just a bit, when she hoists the massive sword off her back and brandishes it at him. The girl is tiny, far smaller than he remembered, now that she's been years without her fine clothes or her crown or her empowering speeches. Once she had been a near-indomitable enemy. Now she was nothing more than a teenage girl.

He hadn't expected the sword from her, if he was being entirely honest. She had always seemed more of a mystic, inclined toward magic above all else. But magic was, he supposed, a largely spoken art. No matter; he's better with a sword anyway.

Her speed is the first thing that surprises him. It shouldn't; the small are often fast, and it's something he's been trained to accommodate his entire life, but he finds himself struggling to raise his own blade in time to block a blow to his side. The sword reverberates in his hand: she's stronger than she looks.

"Well, little princess," he says, infusing his tone with as much condescension as he possibly can and grinning all the wider when her lips tighten, "it seems you've grown into quite the little warrior."

She says not a word— of course she says not a word—, but brings her sword in a high arc above her head that, had it landed, would have barely nicked his collarbone. He moves out of the way instead, and the swing goes wide, but her feet remain planted, her pivot smooth and sure, and he wonders, just for a moment, what she has truly been doing these past two years.

He shakes himself out of it and takes the offensive, swinging blow after blow at her side, her legs, her chest, her arms. She blocks every one neatly, preternaturally predicting his every move, and when he finishes his flurry of attacks he notices she's hardly sweating.

They lock gazes for a long moment, his bemused, hers brimming with hatred. The stillness in the room makes it hard to breathe. The noise of the battle outside is muffled, dim, as his world narrows to her, her eyes, the minute twitches in her muscles that could give away any move. The testing period is over.

She lunges at him, but he sees it coming, and then it is blow after blow after blow, their swords meeting with clangs that would certainly offend his ears in any other context, the impact reverberating up his arm. They circle each other, traversing the room almost more quickly than he can keep up with. She lands a blow to his ribs, he glances off her left shoulder, but the wounds are ignorable. They attack and retreat, attack and retreat, until finally their swords slam hilt-to-hilt, and they are completely locked in place.

He bears down, using his greater strength and bigger size to his advantage against her determination and lower center of balance. He claims a small victory when she surrenders first, slipping her sword away and retreating.

Hardly have they separated when a loud boom from the battle outside rocks the castle, and they're brought forcibly back from their island of conflict. Her armies, meager as they are, clashing with his outside and, he's sure, being completely annihilated. He wants to remind her, to mock her about her loyal people getting brutally slaughtered when they shouldn't have to, if only she could speak the command words for the castle statues. To see her lose her deadly composure to rage and embarrassment would almost be worth the reminder of his own failure to take complete control of his conquered castle. The statues still respond to the monarch's spoken command, and though he has taken the monarch's tongue he has not, evidently, taken her place.

The flicker of emotion across her face tells him she's having the same thought. Not as stoic as she'd like to appear, then. Perhaps he can turn that to his advantage.

"Listen to them dying, little princess," he says, lips curling into a smirk. "They're dying for you, and you'll remember their faces for the rest of your life."

She growls, actually growls, and he laughs.

"Does that upset you, little princess? Are there people you love out there, fighting so hard to win your throne back? And to think, you could help them with only three little words. Except—"

He never gets a chance to finish his sentence. She's upon him like a devil, her sword moving faster than he'd thought possible, blow after blow, quicker than he can block. One slices across his upper arm, and he nearly drops his sword in surprise, barely meeting her next attack. Anger was supposed to make her sloppy; instead, it has made her strong.

It's over, he knows. His sword begins moving slower, his every swing going wide as she darts away. She, meanwhile, lands hit after hit on him, small cuts and bruises that quickly add up until his entire body is aching. He finds himself retreating more than he advances, only his familiarity with the room preventing him from getting backed into a corner.

But she knows the room well, too, and soon he trips over the edge of the dais and stumbles, and she is upon him. His sword skitters away, while hers comes to rest with its point in the hollow of his throat.

I don't need the statues to defeat you, her eyes say, more eloquently than she ever could have with her tongue. and it's true. Her castle had never accepted him as ruler over it, no more than her people had, no more than she herself had. And his people were little more than mercenaries, who would vanish as soon as it became clear no one was around to pay them. She's brought him down, and his entire reign with him.

"Kill me," he rasps, surprised at how harsh his voice sounds. It's been too long since he's properly dueled; he's winded, injured, weak. Standing over him, she looks tall and imperious by comparison.

"You've won, kill me," he repeats. "I'm worth nothing as a prisoner, you've nothing to torture out of me. It's over, little princess—" her sword presses harder against his throat at the nickname— "so let me be over, too."

He remembers well the thrill of having his enemy at his mercy, of the resistance of skin against his sword, of the fear in their eyes. He strives not to give her the satisfaction, but when he meets her gaze he sees nothing even resembling it. She looks conflicted, sad, and tired. Her sword arm droops, the tip sliding to one side. She's not going to kill him.

He thinks on the dungeons, on the treatment he'll get from every person loyal to her if she spares him, on long nights alone with his defeat. "Remember what I've done to you, little princess," he wheezes— had one of her blows hit his ribs that hard? He can't recall, and the pain is so ubiquitous he can't gauge it now. "I slaughtered your people, your friends. Cut out your tongue and exiled you. Hunted you for two years. I've run your kingdom into the ground, and you and I both know it won't fully recover in your lifetime. I don't deserve life, little princess. Execute me here, tell my troops I'm gone, stop the slaughter of your friends."

Her gaze sharpens at the mention of her army, still fighting outside if the shouts and clangs are any indication, but it's not the grim determination he expects that settles in her eyes, but an almost vindictive glee. She withdraws her sword, sheaths it, and turns her back on him. A wild idea pops into his head, and he is struggling to his feet, lurching toward his sword, before it can even fully solidify. He's barely within reach of the hilt, however, when hands grab his shoulders— strong hands, much larger than the ones he was expecting— and he feels the leather strap encircling his wrists and cutting off circulation to his hands. He wants to protest that he could lose them, but for all he knows that's the idea.

"Lead the way, my lady," a man's deep voice says, and when he's turned around he recognizes the princess's captain of the guard. He knew he should have executed the man when he had the chance.

It takes three turns before he realizes where the princess and her guard dog are leading him. The balcony over the courtyard, where he'd once displayed her after he'd taken her castle. My men can't see me like this, he thinks idiotically. How they see him hardly matters now. They'll be gone by dawn. It's over.

The guard captain slams the doors open, and the bang is enough to attract the attention of the nearest men in the courtyard below. He tries not to look at them, but has an irrational need to see if his army was winning where he couldn't. They're not.

"Send word to your comrades," the other man booms, the princess beside him standing as tall and proud as he's ever seen her, even with her hair in disarray and her clothes dirty and sweaty. She's a ruler, through and through. "This battle is over. Your king has fallen. Long live the queen."

The princess's men begin cheering below, before they pursue their enemies out of the courtyard. In a lower voice, the captain asks, "Should I execute him, my lady?"

The princess shakes her head. Not now, she seems to say. She takes a step forward, leans on the railing, takes in her surroundings. She inhales, a smile on her face that has nothing to do with the scent of blood and smoke from the battle, and everything, he is sure, with being home.

"I underestimated you," he says before he can stop himself. She raises a questioning eyebrow at him, but he's in control of himself again and doesn't elaborate. Breathing has become painful, and all his bodily aches have honed in on his right side.

"You should show the queen proper respect," the guard captain says with a kick to his chest. He inhales a sharp gasp of pain, and the princess lets out a noise of protest.

"I'm only trying to ensure he knows his place, seeing as it's been so recently changed," the man defends himself.

The princess shakes her head, and through a complicated series of gestures indicates that he should be taken away, presumably back down to the dungeons. The guard captain grabs his arm more roughly than necessary and drags him back through the door and down the hall. The last he sees of her is her silhouette against the orange sky, the conquering heroine returned home at last.


End file.
